The chapel fell silent—eerily silent.
No one moved. Not a breath. Not a sound.
Lucien stood frozen, his sword trembling in his hand. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, as if the very air had grown thick and heavy.
He blinked once.
Then again.
But the man—the vampire—was still there.
It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a trick of the smoke or the light.
He was real.
Tall and still as stone, standing in the heart of the ruined chapel, cloaked in shadows and wings. His presence rolled through the room like cold mist—silent, steady, and impossible to ignore.
Lucien didn’t know what shocked him more: that someone had shown up to save them…
Or that it was a vampire walking under the sun.
“Is that… a vampire?” Leila whispered from where she lay, her voice barely louder than a breath.
“He’s not just a vampire,” Kael rasped, still clutching his ribs. “Look at him. The sun’s touching him and he’s not burning. He has to be S-class.”
Cassian pushed himself up on one elbow, eyes fixed on the man in black. “Count Veylar Thorne…” he said slowly, like the name tasted of iron on his tongue. “I know that name. Most historians thought he was just a myth.”
Garron coughed, spitting blood. “He has to be the one Mira fought back in the woods.”
Grey pressed a hand against the wall, trying to steady himself. “Then why the hell is he helping us?”
Rook wiped blood from his mouth and gave a grim chuckle. “I’m more worried about whether he plans to eat us after.”
No one laughed.
No one could.
Not even the assassins.
Veylar’s smile faded—just a little.
His glowing eyes narrowed, turning sharp as razors.
The chapel, already bruised by steel and blood, seemed to flinch with him.
The spearman was the first to break the silence.
"You’ll be the first vampire I kill."
Veylar didn’t answer.
He vanished.
Not in a blink. Not in a blur.
One moment he was there. The next, the space he had occupied was only mist and silence.
The spearman barely had time to widen his eyes before—
CRACK.
Veylar materialized behind him in a whisper of shadows, one pale hand already clamped around the man’s throat.
The assassin’s feet left the ground with a strangled gasp, legs kicking wildly in the air.
The spear clattered to the floor.
“Shame,” Veylar murmured, his voice soft as falling ash. “I thought you were as tough as you sounded.”
He drove the man backward mid-air and slammed him into a stone pillar. The impact split the column from base to top. Dust and debris exploded outward.
Veylar let go.
The assassin crumpled to the ground, twitching.
Before the dust could settle, the twin-blade fighter sprang in, slashing in a deadly flurry—one, two, four strokes in a heartbeat. Steel sang, curving toward Veylar’s throat, ribs, and heart.
But Veylar simply raised his arms casually—and caught both blades with his hands.
The twin blades quivered in the air, frozen mid-strike. The assassin’s muscles tensed, eyes wide.
Veylar’s gaze was bored.
“Compared to her, you move like a turtle,” he said.
Then his fists closed.
The blades shattered like brittle ice.
The assassin staggered back, stunned—but Veylar was already there.
A knee drove into the man’s ribs with bone-cracking force. Before the assassin could double over, Veylar stepped past him, spun in place, and delivered a backhand with the force of a wrecking ball.
The assassin flew across the chapel like a doll tossed by a storm. He crashed through a pew and skidded to a halt in a broken heap.
The third one—the one in the eyeless, smiling mask—stepped forward, talismans swirling into the air like cards in a storm.
Magic sigils ignited around him, pulsing yellow and red.
He raised both hands. The air rippled.
“Die!” the masked one roared.
A pulse of raw energy shot forward like a cannon blast, twisting the chapel air into a howling wind.
It almost slammed straight into Veylar’s chest—but was blocked by a red-black mana shield.
And dissolved.
Veylar stood unmoved, his hem barely ruffled, eyes glowing brighter now—like coals being fed.
“That was rude,” he said.
The ground darkened beneath his feet as shadows peeled up from the floor like oil come alive.
They rose into tendrils—thin at first, then thick as limbs, writhing like serpents of black mist.
They surged forward—fast. Faster than the assassin could scream.
The shadows wrapped around the assassin’s limbs, yanking him into the air with a violent jerk.
His body twisted midair, struggling. He writhed. Clawed. Screamed.
It didn’t help.
The shadows slammed him into the ceiling.
Stone cracked. Blood sprayed.
Then they dropped him.
The body hit the floor like a sack of meat.
Unmoving.
But not dead. Not yet.
For a long, breathless moment, nothing moved.
Veylar stood in the center of the wreckage. Calm. Clean. Not a hair out of place.
He brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder with regal precision.
Around him lay the three assassins who had been tall and cocky a moment ago.
Lucien couldn’t move. His sword hung loosely in his grip.
Cassian’s eyes were wide, jaw tight.
Rook leaned back against the wall, muttering, “Please tell me we’re not fighting... that.”
Kael, barely upright, let out a breathless laugh that sounded like pain. “I guess this is it, guys.”
Garron coughed, blood on his lips. “I'm not going down without a fight.”
“Count me in,” Grey added.
Leila said nothing, but she was trying to reach for her crossbow.
“You… mon… monster.” The spearman pulled himself upright somehow, swaying on blood-slick feet.
One of his arms hung limp at his side. His mask was cracked down the middle, revealing part of his face—pale, trembling, eyes wide with something unfamiliar to him.
Fear.
Veylar turned toward him slowly, like a predator just realizing one of the prey still twitched.
“A monster?” he echoed, voice soft, almost delighted. “You flatter me.”
He began to walk forward.
Each step echoed through the broken chapel like a death knell.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡee2nmS6DZO
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Calm. Unhurried.
The assassin backed away, stumbling over shattered stone and bloodied wood.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrsaZSzO6s8
“Stay—stay back!”
Veylar didn’t stop.
“Ah… You see? There it is. You do know fear,” he said, smirking—his voice smooth as silk and sharper than any blade.
Then—without warning—15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFO49nHDWgQ
He halted mid-step.
His head tilted ever so slightly, as if catching a distant scent only he could sense.
A flicker of amusement danced behind his glowing eyes.
Then came the smile—slow, wicked, and utterly certain.
“So... she’s arrived,” he murmured, voice like silk draped in shadow.
He turned to face the assassins, his gaze gleaming with cruel delight.
“I do wonder what she’ll do to you... after you came so close to killing her father.”
The smile lingered on Veylar’s lips.
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The assassins looked at each other, puzzled.
Then—
The air changed.
It was subtle at first. Like a shiver running up the spine of the world.
A whisper in the silence. A tremble in the stone.
The chapel groaned.
Not from wind. Not from magic.
But from pressure.
The air grew heavier with each breath—dense, electric, alive. It pressed down on the skin, filled the lungs, made hearts race.
The shattered windows rattled in their frames.
A low rumble rolled beneath the ground.
Distant, slow, but growing louder—each one like a drumbeat pounding through the bones of the chapel.
Lucien’s eyes went wide. “Wh… what’s happening?”
Kael gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his temple. “That’s mana pressure… someone powerful is coming. Fast.”
Cassian stared toward the source, his voice barely a whisper. “But that amount of power—it... it feels unreal.”
Rook cursed and threw his arm over his face. “Oh, come on, not another one, gimme a break!”
Then—everyone turned their heads toward the door, disbelief in their eyes—15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw7XSA4MXIs
Everyone except Garron.
He smiled faintly, “Mira…” he whispered.
Then he collapsed—just as a wave of raw power crashed through the chapel.
It was wild. Unshaped. Massive.
Like a tidal wave made of pure magic.
Lucien dropped to one knee, gasping.
Cassian’s sword clattered to the floor as his grip failed him.
Even the assassins recoiled, eyes wide, blood draining from their faces.
The masked one shrieked as his talismans burned to ash mid-air.
The spearman fell to the ground again, coughing and clutching his chest, the breath ripped from his lungs.
The twin-blade assassin muttered something, but no one heard it.
The ground itself shook—the very stone beneath their feet groaning in protest.
Then—CRACK!
The chandelier dropped from the ceiling.
A halo of wind and raw mana swirled into the shattered doorway—
And there she stood.
Bathed in sunlight, surrounded by magic that bent around her presence.
Mira.
Eyes glowing, hair whipping behind her like a banner in the storm.
She looked calm—even as the air screamed around her.
The assassins, battered and bleeding, watched her with wide, shocked eyes.
“Who—what is she…?” the spearman croaked, breathless.
No one answered.
Mira took one step forward.
A single step—and all three assassins gasped, clutching at their chests as if unseen hands had closed around their lungs.
She didn’t look at any of them.
Only at her father.
And Lucien.
She walked past the rubble, past Veylar, past all the scattered bodies on the ground.
She knelt beside Garron with quiet grace, lifted him gently, and brushed a bit of blood from his cheek with gentle fingers.
“You're safe now, Father,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
And though she had spoken softly, the words rang clear in every ear—like a bell in a storm.
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